


Fantasy

by Antosha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Poly, Book Sex, Book: Hogwarts: A History, Community: smutty_claus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasy, Femslash, Fluff and Smut, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Group Sex, Het, Hogwarts Founders Era, Love Triangles, Luna Lovegood Being Luna Lovegood, Minor Helga Hufflepuff/Rowena Ravenclaw, Minor Kreacher/Locket, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Multi, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Pansexual Luna Lovegood, Past Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, Player Neville Longbottom, Poly Quad, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-War, Reading, Relationship Advice, Sexual Fantasy, Sexy Nerdiness, Smutty Claus 2008, reading kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antosha/pseuds/Antosha
Summary: Where does the line blur? (Ron/Hermione... plus)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Lavender Brown/Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood/Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Smutty Claus Exchange





	Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2008 smutty_claus exchange, I wrote this R/Hr fic for attilatehbun. Wee!
> 
> Thanks to flyingcarpet for organizing a great exchange. Do go read some of the fabulous fics; it is strongest, deepest exchanges yet. Especially, read Time and Turn Enough, a long, sweetsad, canonical Ron/Pansy fic by the amazing pocketfullof—my giftfic!
> 
> Warnings: Implied polyamory; implied past homosexual relationship; implied (secondary) non-canon pairings. Book abuse. No use of 'Mione but a couple of Ronalds—from Luna, mind!
> 
> Also, enormous thanks go to aberforths_rug. Just because. :-)

Who came to _Ron Weasley_ for bloody relationship advice?  
  
Neville bloody Longbottom, that’s who. “But I can’t just tell Lavender we’re _finished_ ,” whinged Neville, his Floo-green face contorting in an agony that was only slightly exaggerated by the twisting flames. “It’d kill her!”  
  
Ron sighed, biting his cheek. He could hear laughter from downstairs, and he was really tempted just to Stun Neville, go down and catch up on the hour’s worth of grog and gab. Instead he stayed, listening to Neville circle around, and around… “Right, then, how about dumping Pansy?”  
  
Pouting, Neville said, “She’d kill _me_.”  
  
And around, and _around_ … “I don’t know, Neville, Parkinson isn’t _really_ —”  
  
“Trust me, Ron,” said Neville glumly, “she really is.”  
  
Ron groaned again. It really should have been Harry talking to Neville. He had the patience for it. Not that Harry knew any more about all of this romance bollocks than Ron—if anything he knew less, and certainly less about the two women Neville bloody Longbottom was currently bloody boffing. Ron doubted there was anyone other than Neville who had any kind of idea just what a mess it would be to be stuck between those two.  
  
Of course, no one _knew_ that Ron knew this. Well, everyone knew about Lav-lav, but Ron had never told anyone about the wildly debauched and slightly creepy weekend he’d spent shacked up with Parkinson during one of his and Hermione’s occasional breaks from each other before they’d finally tied the knot. And he didn’t think Pansy would ever tell; he still had a couple of very incriminating articles hidden safely away to make certain of _that_. Bloody Slytherin.  
  
But Merlin, those _thighs…_  
  
Neville was staring at Ron, hangdog expression firmly in place, apparently still waiting for Ron to provide some answer to his dilemma other than to shit or get off the bloody pot.  
  
“Look,” Ron told his friend, “this can’t go on, can it?” He meant the impossible romantic triangle, but he could just as easily have been talking about the string of late-night Floo conversations.  
  
“No,” Neville said, his face falling even further. “No, I suppose not.”  
  
“Right then. _You’ve_ got to be the one to cut the knot with one or the other or both, because, trust me, neither one of those birds is going to walk away from you any time soon without a hunk of you in her beak. They’re not going to chuck it in.”  
  
“No,” sighed Neville. “Lucky bastard that I am, they both say they love me, and tenacious as Pansy can be, Lavender’s just as stubborn.”  
  
“Tell me ‘bout it,” muttered Ron, trying to move the conversation along without leaving his friend hanging. _Lucky?_ The idea of being torn between Lavender bloody Brown and Pansy bloody Parkinson terrified Ron and left him feeling as if he _had_ to help Neville. Bloody, buggering… “So it’s up to you, lucky bastard that you bloody well are. Right, Neville: which one do you really see wanting to spend time with?” This whole thought process was so strange to Ron—once his thing with Lavender was behind him, he’d known he wanted to be with Hermione, and that had been that. Well, except for the one weekend with Parkinson. But that didn’t count.  
  
Oh, it didn’t mean he didn’t _look_ or _think_ or _dream_ about other girls—or that he hadn’t taken those incriminating articles of Pansy’s out of hiding once or twice, just to…—but he had been lucky enough to find his mate all those years ago and to have her find him. Neville’s problem was utterly bewildering. “Who’s the one…” _Who’s the one you can imagine standing toe to toe with, screaming in each other’s face, then leaping into bed and fucking like demons for hours…._ “Who’s the one you can imagine spending the rest of your life with?”  
  
Face twisting in misery again, Neville moaned, “That’s just it, Ron! That’s like asking me which rose is more beautiful—they’re both wonderful, and I can see committing to either of them. Lavender’s incredibly sweet and full of, you know, spirit, and she understands me, and I know Pansy seems bristly and arrogant and all, but she can be incredibly wonderful and thoughtful, and she expects the best of me—she doesn’t let me get away with _anything_.”  
  
_She lets you get away with **this**_ _,_ Ron thought. “Fine, then, what about the sex?”  
  
Neville shot Ron a wicked, satisfied grin that gave witness to just how much Neville had grown in the fifteen years they’d known each other. “They’re both absolutely amazing. Trust me, Ron, I’ve got plenty to compare to. I know. Like I said, I’m a lucky bastard.”  
  
There was another burst of laughter from downstairs.  
  
“Fine. Lucky bastard.” Through the first few years after Voldemort’s defeat, Neville had discovered to his shock that girls _love_ a hero, so he played the role for all it was worth; it seemed as if he’d slept his way through half of the women in wizarding Britain.  
  
“Well, yeah.” Neville’s grin softened slightly. “And so are you.” Ron and he had laughed about it; Neville had been the one who pointed out that Hermione was probably the only witch alive who could keep up with the whole pack of Neville’s conquests for sheer excitement and imagination, and Ron had been forced—not at all unwillingly—to agree. Mostly he’d been relieved that Neville hadn’t brought up Ron’s sister’s name—that would have been….  
  
Neville had been on the cover of _Witch Weekly_ thirty times over the past seven years (to Harry’s seven and Ron’s two—Ron didn’t envy his friends, happily married as he mostly was; he was mostly pleased that Draco Malfoy had never made the cover even once), and he was still considered the most eligible wizard in Britain—since Harry was so clearly happy with Ginny. There hadn’t been a _Trouble in Paradise with Potter and His Harpy?_ headline for years; happy relationships didn’t sell.  
  
And of course, no one went after Ron and Hermione. Rita Skeeter’s surprise request for a permanent assignment to the Azkaban beat had shown the reporters not to mess with Hermione Weasley. Too bloody right.  
  
Over the past couple of years, however, Neville had begun to talk about wanting to settle down, had talked about envying Ron, Harry and Dean their stable love lives, and two girls had slowly won their way to the front of the pack. “Look, Neville,” said Ron, “you’ve got to, you know, do the whole talking thing with them, but in the end, trust me, you’ve got to be the one to choose. Lavender or Pansy?”  
  
“I can’t, Ron,” answered Neville, and he actually looked as if he might cry. Suddenly his face looked very much like that of the boy Ron had first met at Hogwarts. Ron half expected old Trevor to come hopping out of Neville’s robes. “I can’t.”  
  
“I don’t know, then, Neville,” Ron grumbled, feeling annoyed and thirsty, even as he felt for his friend. “Toss a coin. Or make them duel for you.”  
  
Neville at least managed a small smile. “There’s an image. Lavender would wipe the floor with Pansy.”  
  
That _was_ in fact an image. “Or walk away from them both. Or move them both into your flat and tell them they have to share.”  
  
“Damn,” Neville said, his tongue darting over dry lips. “There’s _another_ image.”  
  
“I’m sure I can’t even imagine,” muttered Ron, though of course, yes indeed, he could imagine that very well. Pansy and Lavender and… “But Merlin, Neville. _Talk with them_. _Make a decision_. Till you do, all three of you are going to be miserable, and nobody wants that.” _I’m certainly tired of the whole bloody mess._  
  
“No,” sighed Neville, his mouth resolving itself into a straight line that might have been determination, or might have been resignation. “No, I don’t.”  
  
When at last, a good fifteen minutes later, Ron finally slouched his way down into the Grimmauld Place kitchen, Dean and Ginny were both weeping with laughter by the stove, while Harry stood beside them, apparently examining the flagstone floor really, really carefully. Luna was sitting at the table, lips parted, an almost-empty drink held at a dangerous angle at her shoulder, her pale eyes fixed at a point somewhere well beyond the confines of house that Harry shared with Ginny.  
  
Hermione sat primly beside her, slightly flushed but barely holding in a small grin. _Damn._  
  
“Ron! You’re back!” Ginny raised a glass that sloshed amber liquid and flame. “The hero’s hero! Such a good boy!”  
  
Hermione lifted her chin; a subtle invitation, but one that Ron knew to promise heaven—or possibly hell. He walked to her and started to lean down, when she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a knee-weakening, sulfur-tinged kiss.  
  
The onlookers cheered, his bloody sister loudest of all.  
  
Once he had accepted Hermione’s whisky-flavored snog, he walked her over to the table and picked up his own glass. The heat from the firewhisky had faded, but he didn’t care. He’d just spent most of Hermione’s last night before she headed off to Mexico for a conference talking to bloody Longbottom, and he wasn’t going to waste any more time. He kissed his wife again once he’d pounded down the whole shot, and asked, “So what’s so funny that poor Neville upstairs thought you were all being tortured?”  
  
“Merlin, death by tickling jinxes! What a way to go!” snorted Dean, while Luna canted her head and asked, “He didn’t really think that, did he? He’s quite sensitive about torment, you know.”  
  
“Nah, he didn’t,” admitted Ron, “but _I_ sure wondered what was so funny.”  
  
“We were talking,” said his wife, enunciating very carefully, “about fantasies.”  
  
“Fa…?” Ron blinked at Hermione, and then at the rest.  
  
“Yes, Ronald,” said Luna, her voice managing to sound simultaneously low and airy. “I was just telling everyone that I don’t have any.”  
  
Whatever Ron had been bracing himself for, that wasn’t it. He tried very hard not to laugh, but failed spectacularly, inhaling half of his drink and snorting most of the rest painfully through his nose. “Don’t…?”  
  
“Apparently,” laughed Ginny, “whenever lovely Loony gets an itch, she just sort of scratches it, so she never gets to the fantasy stage.”  
  
Ron stared at Luna, who goggled blandly back at him and sighed, “Well, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to hold those sorts of impulses in, does it? I’ve had sex with just about everyone I’ve wanted to have sex with, in just about every way I have wanted to. I quite enjoy it. Why should I wait?”  
  
“Good question, love,” chuckled Dean, winking at Ron. “So long as I’m in the mix, or get to watch, I think that’s a great idea.”  
  
Luna smiled at him beatifically. “Of course. I should never want to disappoint you.”  
  
Ginny snorted and asked, “You mean there isn’t _anyone_ you’ve wanted to shag that you haven’t?”  
  
“Well,” said Luna, staring at the ceiling in something like thought, “I suppose that technically there are a few people… For example, Ginny, I haven’t slept with you or with Ronald, though I’ve always wanted to.” Luna suddenly straightened up, her vague eyes suddenly coming into sharp focus. “Hermione, may I fuck Ronald? You’ve always said how nice his cock is.”  
  
Ron started to cough uncontrollably, while Harry, Ginny and Dean dissolved into laughter again.  
  
“I’m afraid,” answered Hermione, eyes bright, “that that is one impulse that we shall have to ask you to refrain from indulging. For the moment.” Then she pinched his bum and he yelped, leading to another round of general merriment.  
  
“Oh,” sighed Luna, once the room had settled again, “How lovely. I suppose that I can keep that as a fantasy then, after all. Thank you.” She turned toward the trio by the stove. “Well, I would still rather like to have sex with Ginny. Harry, would that be all right with you?”  
  
At first Ron thought Luna must be taking the mickey out of them, but she got up and floated toward the Boy Who Lived and the Girl Who Chased.  
  
Harry got the predatory look on that always gave Ron the collywobbles—since it was usually aimed at Ron’s sister. “Since you already know… Depends on if I get to join. Gin?”  
  
Ginny squeezed his hand in one of her own and reached the other out toward Luna, who took it. “Works for me. Okay, Dean?”  
  
Ron’s jaw was somewhere around his ankles. He knew he should say something, but couldn’t even think where to start.  
  
“Uh… Umm,” Dean stammered, eyes wide.  
  
“We haven’t talked about _your_ fantasies yet, Thomas,” Harry said gruffly, an arm around each bird’s waist, “but I bet they aren’t too far from mine, right?”  
  
“Actually,” said Luna, “I think your fantasies and his are quite compatible, but different.”  
  
Harry blinked, and Dean just nodded mutely, his dark skin darkening even further.  
  
“Dean likes to watch,” said Ginny, her voice low.  
  
“And draw,” added Luna, her voice airy as lace.  
  
The four of them locked eyes, looking as if they might go at it right there in the bloody kitchen, and Ron would have exploded, but fortunately Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, now that that’s settled,” she said, as if addressing a subcommittee, “perhaps Ron and I should head upstairs. Good night, everyone.”  
  
Four sets of eyes owled at them. Before Ron could think of anything to say, Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the kitchen and up the stairs.  
  
Ron’s brain began to boil with images like some obscene stew: Luna, well, he’d always wondered, but _Ginny…?_ And Harry, well, a bloke _would,_ but _not with Ron’s_ _sister_ , and… _Watching?_ At the first landing, he turned to go back down and stop whatever they were getting up to before it got too far, but Hermione grabbed his shoulder, pushed him against the banister and very demurely stuck her tongue down his throat.  
  
Any thought of Luna or Harry or any of the rest of it went right out of his head. Part of him was boiling still, but it wasn’t his brain, and his senses overflowed with curly brown hair and his wife’s whisky-hot mouth and _bum…_.  
  
“Have I got your attention, now, Ron?”  
  
He grunted and reached to pull her back, but she wiggled away, flashing the _I’m-a-wicked-girl-but-only-for-you_ smirk that always drove him wild.  
  
Fuck Harry and the rest. Fuck Neville. Ron chased Hermione up the remaining two flights to their room, her squealing and giggling the whole way, but staying just out of his grasp. At their room—it had been Hermione and Ginny’s all those years ago, and he’d had fantasies even then of switching with his sister and…—he finally grabbed hold of her, and she wriggled again, but he had her now, pressed between him and a thick oak door, his hands working under her robes, up her thigh, fingers along the edge of lacy pants, pulling, and…  
  
She opened the door and the two of them tumbled through onto the thick carpet of their room with an _oof!_ from him and a high-pitched squawk from her.  
  
Just as he was about to kick the door closed and ravish her right there on the floor, a voice from Ron’s nightmares broke in.  
  
“Mistress, Kreacher has turned down your bed.” The house elf was standing at their heads, leering down at them lasciviously and stroking the gold locket that he carried everywhere.  
  
Hermione twisted beneath Ron in ways that were both incredibly pleasant and a bit painful. “Thank you, Kreacher.” As always, she spoke to the twisted old elf as if he were a particularly precocious child.  
  
“Mistress is too kind,” Kreacher answered. “Kreacher hopes that Mistress has a very… _enjoyable_ night.” Continuing to stroke the locket, his ancient hamstrings vibrating, Kreacher made his way through their tangled legs and out of the room.  
  
“Bloody hell,” said Ron as he closed the door, “ _that’s_ almost enough to put a man off for life.”  
  
“It is?” pouted Hermione. Somehow, she had made her way to the bed, and was draped across it, her robes shed, lying there in nothing but the really naughty, really tiny sapphire blue silk things that Ginny’d helped him buy for Hermione’s last birthday.  
  
“Uh,” said Ron, finding himself stumbling towards the bed with no memory of having stood, “no.”  
  
He slid himself between her thighs and kissed her hard. She pressed the whole of her bountiful body against him, and helped him peel away his own robes without breaking the kiss.  
  
When they were almost to the point of no return—just enough brain cells and clothing left to keep them from plunging over the cliff, and knowing that if they plunged now, he wouldn’t last as long as he’d like—he pushed back on both arms and gazed down at her.  
  
There she was, the Hermione that he loved most: hair tangled, cheeks red, lips wet and red. Eyes wide with lust. _Damn._ “So,” he began, not knowing what he was going to say. “Fantasies?”  
  
“Mmmm,” said Hermione, her legs wrapping around Ron’s and causing her lacy, silky pants to tangle against his cotton ones in a really, really distracting way.  
  
“Harry’s was, what? Being with two women?”  
  
“Yes,” she sighed, shivering as goose-flesh sprang up across her chest. “Not surprising, but it was so funny, because he was so embarrassed.”  
  
“Well, yeah.” He reached between her breasts to try to unbuckle the bra. “Who wouldn’t be? And Harry, he’s embarrassed to be reminded he’s even got a body.”  
  
“True!” she said, laughing; her breast bounced on either side of his struggling hand in a manner that really didn’t make the task any easier, but which he really couldn’t say he minded. “And of course, _Luna_ wasn’t at all embarrassed. Nor was Ginny, for that matter. She—”  
  
“Yeah, never mind what her fantasies were, thanks. Probably something I’d really rather not know.”  
  
She stroked his chin. The damned buckle still refused to operate, and now, with one of her arms up, that breast pressed up against his hand, and he really wanted—. “Ron?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“What’s yours? Your fantasy? Two women? Or watching, like Dean? Or just… another woman?”  
  
She was suddenly very still. She had her frightened-little-girl face on, the one that always killed him—not the put-on pout, but the one that she’d used to get when they were young, when all the swottiness and bossiness melted away because he’d done something…  
  
“Hermione?”  
  
“Ron… When we… Before we were married. I don’t want to know. But… Did you ever…? Were you ever with anyone else? While we were not together?”  
  
He’d never said anything about Pansy—he’d rather swallow ground glass, because he knew it would kill Hermione. But he couldn’t lie, not to her. “I… Yeah.”  
  
The little-girl face got even sadder. Even smaller.  
  
“Hermione, it wasn’t ever… It was—”  
  
She lay a finger across his lips and he stopped. “I don’t want to know.”  
  
He nodded. Tried not to scream _Thank Merlin!_ though that’s what he felt like doing. They lay there, staring into each other’s eyes, still as they were so infrequently still. “Uh. Hermione?”  
  
“Yes, Ron. I did too.”  
  
“Oh.” A weird mix of feelings steeplechased around his guts: cold fear, hot anger, and—weirdest of all—liquid desire. “Oh.”  
  
“Do you want to know, Ron?” Her voice was so quiet, he’d almost believe it wasn’t there, if he couldn’t feel it humming against his hand, which was still sandwiched between her silk-encased breasts.  
  
Did he? He wasn’t sure. Well, to be honest, he _didn’t_ want to know, definitely not, but he had learned his own weaknesses well enough over the years to know that it would eat at him, that it would grow like one of the tumors that old Aunt Muriel was continually complaining about the healers cutting out of her. Like the way that Ron’s memory of sitting in the Common Room window and watching those walks that Hermione took with Harry out by the lake fourth year would grow and fester until that bloody _locket_ latched onto it and it became a nightmare…. “Uh. I think I need to.”  
  
She nodded.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Well,” she said and bit her lip.  
  
“Come on, Hermione,” Ron said, more cheerfully than he felt. “It was before we were married. I promise not to cut the bloke’s tadger off. At least, not while anyone’s watching.”  
  
She tried not very successfully to smile. “It wasn’t… That’s why I asked actually.”  
  
Ron frowned down at his wife, confused for once not by her ridiculous vocabulary and stratospheric logic but by her own timidity.  
  
She took a deep breath. “When… Down in the kitchen, when Luna was talking about not having fantasies…”  
  
“Yeah,” he prompted. “When she said she’d slept with everyone she’d wanted to?”  
  
Hermione nodded. “You see, she was very clear. I was sure that you would work it out. I mean, she’s living with Dean now. And of course she and Harry saw each other for a few months right after the war while Ginny…” _While Ginny was so hacked off and Harry too stupid to see that it was just a matter of time._ “And _then_ Luna mentioned that she had always wanted to, to sleep with you and with Ginny. And that left…” She stopped and bit her lip again.  
  
Ron waited for her to finish, but she just stared up at him, eyes wide and pleading, waiting for the knut to drop. Which it finally did. “ _LUNA_? You and _Luna_?”  
  
She gave a small, timid nod.  
  
“Wow.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.  
  
“It was just for a couple of weeks, the last time that you and I were, were not seeing each other.”  
  
The same time he was shacked up with Parkinson. Luna and Hermione…  
  
_Wow._  
  
“And it was very lovely,” Hermione continued, her voice pitched as it always was when she was embarrassed or upset and trying to pretend not to be, “but I didn’t think it was something I needed to explore any further, and you’re all I ever really wanted, even when you leave your robes on the living room floor, and I never felt as if I could tell you because I didn’t know if you’d be disgusted”—he shook his head—“or puerile and typically male about the idea of me with a another woman, when it was very much _not_ about you.” She finally ran out of breath and lay panting beneath him, eyes still wide.  
  
“Uh,” Ron said, mostly to let her know she didn’t need to keep talking. “Probably a good choice.” Luna and his Hermione?  
  
_Wow._  
  
He looked down at her—eyes wide, mouth small, face flushed—and sighed. “Want to know _my_ fantasy?” he asked. Before she could start speaking again, he continued, “It’s the same one I’ve had since I was fourteen. It involves a smart-mouthed swot with curly hair lying on the bed we share, her legs around my back, both of us moaning each other’s names, naked as the day we were born.”  
  
And with a pinch of finger and thumb, he finally popped the front clasp to her bra, freeing those glorious, thick-nippled breasts, to her delight and his.  
  
“There’s the naked bit,” he said, and she gasped as his thumbs circled either nipple. He pressed his whole body against her, his cock working its way past the band of his boxers and onto her belly. She reached between them, pulled her panties to one side and guided him in—not gently, like she usually did, but firm and rough, and they both screamed.  
  
“Th-there’s the calling the names bit,” she moaned, and then they didn’t speak for a while.  
  
The first time Ron and Hermione fucked it had been her honest-to-goodness First Time, and he’d been terrified of hurting her. He wanted it to be perfect. It was the autumn after Fred’s death, and everything had fallen back together; she’d gone back to Hogwarts as Head Girl, and he’d taken over running Zonko’s for George. It was the first Hogsmeade weekend, and she’d swept into the shop, cheeks pink, Gryffindor scarf wound around her chin, her eyes bright… They hadn’t expected it, either of them: they’d smacked together like a pair of Bludgers, and all of the kids in the aisles had giggled, and the pair of old wizards who were helping in the shop, the Lovage brothers, had whisked them up the stairs at the back to the flat above the shop, and they had found themselves on the bed, gasping and panting, clothes disappearing as if by magic, and all Ron could think of was that it should be wonderful for her—well that, and berating himself for having done this with Lavender, who’d always been more interested in getting done quickly so she could tell Parvati all about it than in actually _doing it_. Ron had kissed Hermione and licked her every way he knew how. He’d kept pulling back from actually penetrating her until she’d finally screamed, “ _Fuck it, Ron, just FUCK ME, PLEASE!_ ”  
  
And he had. And it had been bloody fantastic.  
  
And of course, Ginny and Luna and Harry had just happened to be out in the street—Luna getting her two friends together again, bless her. So when Ron and Hermione finally came down, it was to a room full of very timid third- and fourth years, a pair of tittering Lovages, and a set of Weasley Magic Message Balloons floating above the till reading _FUCK IT, RON, JUST FUCK ME, PLEASE!_  
  
Hermione hadn’t been able to show her face in the Great Hall for weeks after.  
  
Their lovemaking, like their fighting, had never been quiet, and it wasn’t now.  
  
When they finally came, howling and bellowing, to a halt, they were tangled, sweaty, panting.  
  
Shreds of Hermione’s lovely knickers were somehow tangled in her hair and Ron’s toes.  
  
“So,” Hermione said, breathlessly, “something like?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Your fantasy?”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” he said, taking her earlobe between her teeth, causing her to shudder in such a way that he nearly came again. “Bloody _hell!_ ” When their bodies had stopped exploding for a moment, he whispered into her ear, “Great thing ‘bout my fantasy, I get to live it all the time. Not always as often as I’d like, mind, but plenty. ”  
  
She laughed, her cunt squeezing him tight. “Like Luna.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How often _would_ you like, you ingrate?”  
  
“Dunno that my body could actually survive that. But I wouldn’t mind finding out.” He squeezed her bum.  
  
“Silly boy,” she said in the special exasperated tone she saved just for him, and wriggled out from beneath him, trotting off to the toilet as she always did after a good fuck.  
  
Ron flopped onto his back, his cock still lifting exultantly into the air.  
  
_“Hermione, may I fuck Ronald? You’ve always said how nice his cock is.”_  
  
Ron shuddered, his bollocks contracting.  
  
What he was thinking of, it surprised him to find, wasn’t an image of Luna and Hermione kissing or fucking or whatever it was that two women did. It was of Hermione’s face. Hermione’s voice.  
  
“Starting again without me?” that voice called through the mist of his burgeoning fantasy. To his surprise he found that he was stroking himself. _Did Hermione puff her cheeks out and bite her lip when she came? What was it like?_  
  
Git. He’d just seen what it was like.  
  
He rolled on his side, still stroking away. “Was thinking about what you look like when you’re excited.”  
  
“Mmm.” She dropped the bathrobe she’d tossed on and lay down, facing him. “You get to see that all the time.”  
  
“Lucky me.”  
  
“Well, lucky me too!” She kissed his nose.  
  
He ran his fingertips lightly over the hair of her arm, along the pinky, up the hip and around the fuzz of her bum. She shivered. She was always incredibly sensitive after they’d fucked. “You didn’t just now, though, did you?”  
  
“What?” Her eyes were closed; she looked like a very content cat. “Have an orgasm?”  
  
“Yeah. We kind of went straight for the main event.”  
  
“I’ve no complaint.”  
  
He ran his fingers up her ribs, counting them. “Maybe, but it doesn’t seem fair. And you know me and fair.”  
  
“Too true. I should never have gone and fallen in love with a sixth son.” She grinned as she said this and shivered again; an army of goose-flesh charged across her chest.  
  
“Like you had any choice in the matter.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.  
  
“So,” he said, pinching her earlobe lightly, “what’s yours?”  
  
“What?” she said, her voice deep and sounding very much as if she’d just been fucked really well, and was about to be again. “My… fantasy?”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Ron said, trailing a finger along the line of her chin. He loved her chin. “I mean, you got to hear a couple of mine for the price of one.” _Actually, you gave me one I didn’t realize I had_ , he thought, but didn’t say. “So what about yours?”  
  
She grinned and arched as his finger—barely touching her skin—drew a line down the front of her throat. “Can’t you guess?”  
  
“Huh.” Ron spread his hand so that thumb and fingers brushed along her collarbones. “Anything to do with serving detention in your Hogwarts robes?”  
  
She giggled, shuddering, so that her breasts bounced deliciously just below his hand. “Sounds more like one of yours.”  
  
“I prefer you _out_ of robes, schoolgirl or otherwise.” With his palm close enough to feel the heat rising from her skin, he skimmed the side of one perfect breast. “So, okay…. Something to do with the library?” As he palm left the breast behind, he allowed one fingernail to scratch lightly along the soft, pale flesh.  
  
“N’guh.”  
  
“I beg your pardon, Miss Granger, please speak clearly.” With his thumb pad he began to count the bumps on her areola. “Did I get it?”  
  
“Um.” She arched again, and he could smell her excitement and the scent of their recent fuck rising again. “Not… quite. Closer.”  
  
“That so?” His hand moved on from the hypersensitive flesh of her breast and she gave a gasp of disappointment. His fingers trailed down her belly, circled her belly button and slithered their way into the tangle of hair below. “Getting closer, am I?”  
  
Just as his finger was about to brush along the frilly cowl around her clit, she growled and pushed him onto his back. Surprised, he pulled his hand away, but she barked, “No!” and pulled his fingers back to her cunt.  
  
Ron hadn’t fallen in love with Hermione Granger because he minded being told what to do, now and again.  
  
As he went back to caressing her cunt lips, she reached behind her to the nightstand. “Here,” she grunted. Onto his chest thunked a book.  
  
“Uh?”  
  
“Read it.”  
  
“Read…?”  
  
Her face darkened and her eyes closed. “Read it. To me.”  
  
Perplexed, he reached up with both hands to grab the book, but once again she barked, “No!” and pulled his right hand back between her legs.  
  
With his left hand, he picked up the book. _Hogwarts, A History_. New edition. Of bloody course. “You want me to…?”  
  
“Read. It.” She rolled her pelvis against his hand; without thinking, he stroked her, and she hissed.  
  
He was about to apply himself entirely to diddling her to a screaming orgasm when she pushed the book back up, blocking his view, and opened it.  
  
“If you insist, my dear,” he said.  
  
“I do.”  
  
With a quick breath for luck, trying to keep the fingers in his right hand playing across her pussy while his left hand kept the book still, he read. “ _Though neither the oldest nor the largest of the wizarding world’s centers of magical education, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is without a doubt the most renowned, both for the high standards that it has maintained across the centuries and for the accomplishments of its many noted graduates…._ ”  
  
It wasn’t exactly easy; his hands weren’t Ron’s preferred tools for bringing Hermione off, and doing it one-handed while simultaneously trying to focus on reading out loud from the least interesting book Ron had ever opened reminded Ron of trying to eat stolen biscuits in the attic. The biscuits tasted just as delicious, but the ghoul was every bit as nasty, and it was an even guess whether delicious or nasty would win out.  
  
“ _…Pictish outpost with signs of Druidic influence…_ Oy, you want me to read the footnotes?”  
  
Hermione choked out something that sounded like _please_ , and went back to helping press Ron’s hand against her labia.  
  
“Okay. Let’s see. _Cf. Ullyses Gyre, Geomancy in Pre-Celtic Britain, London, 1728, p. 1298–37. _Definitely got to track that down. Sounds like a real corker, that.”  
  
“Ron.” Hermione sounded as if she were being diddled, and as if she were playing were her tits, which she was, but she also sounded as if she were getting annoyed.  
  
Slipping his middle finger in to her wet, sticky cunt, he looked for his place on the page. “Right. Let’s see. Uh. Right. … _signs of Druidic influence may still be found in the hills to the south of modern Hogsmeade. Evidence of human, goblin and possibly elfin habitation…_ ”  
  
He brought his right thumb to bear and was rewarded by a not-quite-stifled squeal of pleasure.  
  
This might turn out to be fun after all.  
  
As Ron read on and on about the arrival of the Celts and Danes on the shores of Loch Dubh, which he was actually interested to discover was the original name of the Hogwarts lake, his wife began to make unmistakable sounds of arousal. In Hermione’s case, this meant that she began swearing under her breath. “Shit. Oh, shit. Fuck. Oh.”  
  
He had just reached the climax of the first chapter—the arrival of Hengist of Woodcroft to found the village that would one day be known as Hogsmeade—when he felt a light touch just above his hip that made him nearly drop the book. Hermione was running the feathered end of her favorite quill across his skin. “Hermione? What…?”  
  
“Taking… ( _Oh, fuck, fuck, shit, cunt_ ) …notes… Read. ( _Fuck…_ )”  
  
On he read. On he diddled. On her quill flicked, here and there across his freckles.  
  
When he reached the moment when Rowena Ravenclaw arrived with her diadem—the diadem Ron, Harry and Hermione had all nearly died trying to retrieve and destroy—Hermione gave a shout and pushed Ron’s hand away. Before he could ask what had happened, she lifted the book slightly to give herself room, threw her leg across Ron’s waist and sank down onto his cock, causing both of them to swear almost in unison.  
  
“ _Read_ ,” gasped Hermione, and began to rock her pelvis against Ron. To drive the point home, she started “taking notes” again, doodling on his chest and belly with the soft side of the quill. This actually made it really, really _hard_ to do what she asked, but he tried, lifting the book in both hands—enough to read from, but not so much that he couldn’t see her half-closed eyes and open mouth, the sheen of sweat across her forehead.  
  
“Ummm… MMm… _Though Helga Hufflepuff received the newcomer gladly—_ SHIT!— _Slytherin was suspicious, feeling…_ ”  
  
He read on, his hands trembling as his pelvis began to match Hermione’s rhythm. He reached out with his left hand, which Hermione pulled against an unseen, bouncing breast.  
  
“… _Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw became closer and closer even as…_ ” Closer and closer. In his mind’s eye, Ron saw the two Founders: both had curly hair, one brown, one dirty blonde. _Closer and closer._  
  
“ _SHIT!_ ” screamed Hermione, dropping her quill to the bed. “ _FUCK, FUCK, RON, FUCK!_ ” Her knees squeezed against his ribs and her cunt pulsed _hard_ around his cock, lighting his own fuse so that he thrust only once more, lifting her off of the bed and exploding into her, wet fire erasing the borders between them, and they both collapsed panting once again onto the bed.  
  
When the stars cleared from his vision, Ron looked down. Hermione’s face was slack, resting on the still-open copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ on his shoulder.  
  
“Well,” he gasped, “that… was certainly educational. Didn’t you think?” There wasn’t any fantasy about this, he thought. About the smooth heat of her around and against him. About the slowing drumbeat of her heart against his chest and the fan of her breath across his throat. This wasn’t fantasy—it was bloody real, and it was bloody marvelous.  
  
“Fantastic,” she said. She lifted her head, a loose, evil grin on her face. And then she picked up the book. “Keep reading.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've just realized that I haven't written a whole lot of non-angsty Ron/Hermione. Yay for non-angsty R/Hr! XD
> 
> I've just _also_ realized that this is the first extended piece I've ever written from Ron's point of view! W00t!
> 
> I adapted this fic as an original piece of erotic entitled [Fantasy Is More than Black and White](https://stillpointeros.com/product/fantasy-is-more-than-black-white/?utm_campaign=AO3&utm_souce=FANTASY) — also available in the anthology [Wedding Belles & Bridal Beaux](https://stillpointeros.com/product/wedding-belles-bridal-beaux/?utm_campaign=AO3&utm_source=FANTASY)


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